Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Do not trust anyone. And the unmentionable.

I feel the need to describe the terrors of Celiac Disease.
Terror meaning you cannot trust anyone - ever. Even your own sweet grandmother who is just trying to fatten you up and put a smile on your face. Because your dear sweet grandmother is getting old and she just may pick up the wrong cake mix and give you a piece of moist chocolate cake assuring you its gluten free, made especially for you because you missed out on the blueberry cobbler the day before. And you gobble it down as soon as you get home from work and then maybe you have another piece because, well, it was a hard day at work. Then a few hours later you are snuggled up in dream land, dreaming about Jake Gyllenhal and Prince Harry vying for your love while you walk down your old street in London and all of a sudden something seems horribly wrong, but you aren't sure what it is. You grasp at your stomach and moan. You realize it's not just in your dream, that there in your little bed you are moaning and tossing and your insides have lit on fire and are trying desperately to make an escape through your belly button.
So you rush to the bathroom, and unmentionable things occur. Your mother, hearing your moans, arrives in the bathroom. She is welcomed with the sight of you cross legged on the floor, head resting on the toilet seat, tears streaming down your face from the pain.
"What's wrong?" she asks, wishing there was something she could do to fix it, but six years of this terror tells her it is hopeless.
"That. cake. was. not. glu-ten. free." you let out, trying to catch your breath. After another unmentionable you tell your mother to return to bed, there is nothing to be done. And it continues. All night long. And you are just so tired. So you curl up and try to fall asleep but your dreams are littered with terror, and you rip awake again in time to put your head into the toilet once more. And it continues.
The next day you try to eat, but your stomach rebels, your small intestines alight with flame. You writhe in pain. And you laugh at the only time you never got sick, because you were in a foreign place, because you didn't know anyone well enough to trust them with your food, because you questioned every waiter, read every label. But at home, with the people you love, you let your guard down. You think that people know you enough, that your parents and your grandparents have cooked for you enough to know to read labels as well. You forget that everyone makes mistakes. You forget that your grandmother can be a bit absent minded. And you get sick.
And that is my terror of living with Celiac Disease.